What's the Diagnosis, Doctor Crane?
by schizometriclanguage
Summary: Scarecrow has Jonathan conduct a running diagnosis of the Bat Man. Mostly because he's something of a fan. Jonathan is kind enough to oblige, having a similar interest himself.
1. Part One of Two

_Why are you doing that, Jonathan?_ Scarecrow asked, interest piqued. Jonathan didn't answer, adjusting the headphones over his ears but neglecting what it'd done to his hair. Didn't matter, didn't matter.

_Why are you doing that, Jonathan_? Scarecrow asked again, more insistent. Jonathan could feel him smiling though, starting to take his meaning and instead of respecting it, mocking it. He reached over to the dial on the stereo. There was _work_ to be done. Not as fun as the actual testing parts with the patients and the screaming, and the crying and; Jonathan sighed. It was _amazing_ how easily they broke under the influence of the pretty blue flowers that they'd sent him. He hadn't seen many plants with such a peculiar composition and that was so easily weaponized.

_You're over-complimenting yourself, it wasn't so easy_ Scarecrow chastised him. The corner of his mouth flicked downwards for a moment, but Jonathan smoothed it over, remembering that he was going to ignore the Scarecrow today. There was work to be done, he reminded himself again. Testing without documentation was useless; something the Scarecrow didn't understand. He saw the effects, and had fun with them, but he didn't understand that there was /_more/_ to it than simply petrifying the subjects.

_Jonathan, you won't be able to hear me like that, _the Scarecrow told him, tone light, as though he were casual about the affair. In truth, it was a warning, and Jonathan knew it. Even when he was _ignoring_ him. Jonathan reached over to the dial again, his other hand still writing down his observations; _presented with extreme paranoia, hallucinations…_

The Scarecrow was laughing, and even over the noise it rang clear.

_Jonathan! You already _know _what it's like! Why are you writing it down?_

He didn't have an answer to that. He didn't have to answer though, and it was better not to encourage Scarecrow with responses when he didn't have the time.

But Scarecrow didn't like it when he neglected him either, so he lost either way.

From behind, the Scarecrow seized the hand he held with a pen, dragging it across the paper in heavy lines and filled in his haphazard drawing violently, making Jonathan's hand cramp with the effort to keep up. Jonathan watched, gritting his teeth, knowing that he couldn't get himself free without damaging himself.

Him_, what do you think of _him?he demanded, thrusting Jonathan's hand to the side. He was getting stronger, Jonathan noted.

On the paper was a symbol of a bat. Scarecrow wanted to know more about the bat man. Scarecrow only knew what he knew, but to give him the information so freely...it was spoiling him. And perhaps he could use it as a rewards system, leverage. But if he _was_ growing as strong as Jonathan thought he might be, rewards could become a futile system and Scarecrow just force it out of him. He frowned, not altogether concerned by the notion, seeing as Scarecrow did seem to harbour some concern over his well-being. They were a part of each other; whatever happened, Jonathan was sure that his overall safety was ensured by Scarecrow. It was just a matter of Scarecrow's patience for his _research_ that worried him. He couldn't do anything with constant interruption.

"He uses the costume to frighten people; stuns them with his image to slow them down," he began thoughtfully, laying the bait.

_I could have figured that out for myself._

Jonathan smiled faintly at the parched dry tone, recognizing the feeling of control as he sensed Scarecrow waiting for him to go on. It was working.

"Let me finish this, and I'll explain when I'm done," Jonathan offered, lifting his hand from his side again and beginning to write again. The Scarecrow might be more frightening than him, and stronger with the sort of strength that came from reckless abandon, but Jonathan assured himself that he was still the more _intelligent_ of their partnership.

The Scarecrow knew it. That's why he wouldn't make demands and expect then to always be followed, why he'd _wait_ until Jonathan had the time for him.

Jonathan waited a moment and when Scarecrow didn't make any further harassments, he took off the headphones, grateful to have bought at least _some_ fraction of time to work in peace.

* * *

_"The Sandman's coming in his train of cars, with moonbeam windows and with wheels of stars," _Jonathan sang in quiet delight, leaning back in the chair, feeling the stiffness in his back slowly uncoil. Things had been going well, the concentrated doses working beautifully. Once dosed, most people wouldn't have a chance of coming out of it. He admired the canister in his hands, thinking of the last few modifications he'd made in it.

_So hush you little ones and have no fear, the man-in-the-moon, he is the engineer._

Jonathan frowned. He wasn't certain on the peculiar sensation he got when Scarecrow finished the lines.

"Where've you been?" Jonathan asked mildly, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. One thing that the Scarecrow could understand better than anyone else was the sheer excitement he felt over fear inducing toxins. It wasn't something brought up at dinner parties very much, much less understood. Not that he went to dinner parties or social functions very often, and when he did it was due to some outside responsibility where he had to keep the Scarecrow at bay. He knew this made him sharp of tongue and easily agitated; a positive, rather than a negative. His wit was quicker when he was annoyed, a blessing in crowds.

_Left you alone. Just like you asked. Miss me?_

He had to bite back the "yes" that'd nearly leapt from his throat. If he told the Scarecrow /_that_, there'd be no sending him off again. And if he couldn't send him off, he couldn't make the things that made them both happy.

"Well, thank-you, because now," Jonathan held up the canister of gas he'd just finished with, "we get to try the new dose."

_On the mobster?_

"On the mobster."

Scarecrow's eyes lighted with the same blue as Jonathan's, reflecting a mutual fervour of anticipation.

_I wonder what mobsters are afraid of…_

"Probably nothing dissimilar to anyone else," Jonathan admitted. It didn't lessen his excitement on the issue. Scarecrow nodded, resting his arms over Jonathan's shoulders from behind to examine the canister. He wasn't perturbed, used to Scarecrow's strangely affectionate movements. Looking at their identical pairs of hands slowly turning the sleek metal between their hands, Jonathan let the excitement settle into a warm contentment. Before he got too comfortable though, the Scarecrow slid his slender fingers away, and took the opposing chair beside him.

_You told me that you'd tell me what you think about the Bat Man _Scarecrow said.

"Oh, yes," Jonathan said, collecting his words for a moment as he set down the canister into the rack alongside the others.

_Well?_

"I said that he's trying to frighten them with his costume. What I'd be interested in confirming is why a bat. What I presume, is that he's afraid of them."

_How do you figure that?_

"Because, when he was choosing it, he wanted to intimidate. He's more than a crack-pot vigilante; he actually _thinks_, believe it or not. He's altruistic, yes, but not a vigilante. A vigilante takes everything personally and from what you and I know from our research is that there's nothing more personal than fear. As 'Batman', he's inducing it in everyone who sees him, sharing it. Spreading it, instead of keeping it solely for himself."

That wasn't the entirety of his thoughts on the Bat Man; he'd ration more for later. Scarecrow leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands.

_I like the _spreading_ bit, but you're still not telling me everything, _he investigated, peering overtop the wire-rimmed glasses they shared.

"No, I'm not. But we've got other things to do at the moment," Jonathan said, tapping the table in an indication that they needed to go.

_Ah, right_.

"Shall we?"

_After you._

* * *

Falcone went berserk before he even got to realize what he was asking, and as Crane watched, he was certain that he wasn't going to come back to any semblance of himself. Ever; the dose was perfect. Better than the one he'd given to the League.

Watching the terror on his face, his pores break out into sweat, the scent a mix of fear and bodily exertion; Jonathan felt the exhilaration twist his mouth into a grin, Scarecrow at his side, nails digging into his shoulder as they watched the descent. It was a maddening delight, too see the man scream and beg, especially given his brutish candour in his criminal life. He watched for as long as he dared, the old mobster railing backwards and screaming for his life against all the nightmares that'd just entered in through the mist.

_Who's the nut now?_

Falcone was muttering and shouting intermittently "Scarecrow, scarecrow!"; Jonathan was pleased that he'd at least made the top five in the mans greatest fears.

Jonathan exchanged his grin with Scarecrow, but their joy was so mutual that it was merely for a mirror image.

They left quickly, but Scarecrow couldn't resist some small commentary,_ Well, he's not faking. Not that one._ They had to be more careful than that, as not to attract suspicion, he reminded himself distantly. But it was just too _funny_. Scarecrow took several hurried steps ahead, trying to find a more secluded space where if he were grinning, they wouldn't be seen and inquired and answering in irresistible stand-up. Once the coast was clear, he turned, walking backwards, to face Jonathan.

_Mm, well that was fun_, he said, cheer infectiously laced in his voice. _When can we have another go?_

Like Jonathan, he was currently incapable of relinquishing the jovial manner. The inspiration still bubbled in his own chest, and given how short these things lasted, Jonathan indulged it completely, and was glad to have someone to indulge in it with him. Satisfaction, entertainment, some minor sense of achievement; things that were hard to come by in a city as rotted as Gotham.

_When can we try it on the Bat Man?_

"Soon enough," Jonathan assured, not plagued with the usual irritability that'd come with Scarecrow's recent obsession with the Bat Man.

_Why are we waiting?_ Scarecrow asked, his expression falling dark. Jonathan watched with mild interest at the sudden change in behaviour. Falcone's fear was beginning to fade from his mind, his body tensing as he prepped himself for Scarecrow's sudden change in behaviour. His unpredictability made him more interesting, kept Jonathan on his toes, but it was also _painfully irritating_ to have someone trying to take control simply because it suited them.

"What, you want to go out into the night, hunting this creature and risk revealing ourselves to everyone? You know what the League would do to us," Jonathan reasoned. And he wasn't exaggerating; the League had found _them_ knew what they wanted, knew how to get what they wanted and had no qualms killing off people who got in the way and compromised _them._ Jonathan would admit it; he was a pawn, but then, the ends allowed him to justify the means. He could play subservient, at least for a while, especially since they weren't playing the same games. His games were in the mind, their's were in some demented form of justice. It was a co-operative effort where he got what he wanted even if it placed him in a lower position.

_Who cares! _Scarecrow shouted, eyes flashing darkly at Jonathan as he crossed the space between them. Jonathan frowned. So he was beyond reasoning at this point.

"I care about keeping the both of us alive," Jonathan said shortly, and taking a step to go around Scarecrow. It didn't work, Scarecrow matching his movement and going a step further and clamping a hand over his throat. Jonathan's hand released the handle of his brief case, sending it clattering to the floor as he reached up to claw Scarecrow off of him. So much for discretion.

_Scared, Jonathan?_

He coughed, prompting Scarecrow to loosen his grip so that he could answer.

"No, but he'll come to _us_ sooner than we could find _him."_

Scarecrow released him completely, the defiance that'd just flared up in his eyes dimming down to embers. _He's gotten much stronger,_ Jonathan thought, rubbing a hand over his throat, soothing the hot skin. Scarecrow didn't apologize or wait for Jonathan as he walked away. He reached down to collect the briefcase, checking the clasp that held it close and pressing it back down firmly when he saw that it was open.

_Soon?_ Scarecrow asked finally as they were driving, apparently done with his pouting.

"Soon," Jonathan promised, hoping for his own sake that he was right.

* * *

Sooner than either of them had predicted.

The moment he heard the glass break, he got ready -he didn't now what for, but Scarecrow prompted him and it _did _make sense. He pulled on the mask, quickly and carefully fitting the gas mask in place. Quickly he tested the gas releasing mechanism, a small burst of the thick, foggy vapour jetting out.

It was the Bat Man; he wasn't surprised, learning quickly of the masked crusader's talents for disruption.

_Having trouble?_ Scarecrow asked. The black gloves went up in surprise at the release of the gas as Jonathan hit the button.

_Take a seat._

"Have a drink," Jonathan added, tossing the gasoline over top the large black figure, feeling his own fingers trembling. Scarecrow shot him a grin, not noticing any of the fear Jonathan was experiencing from the Bat's resemblance too other certain winged creatures; which was unusual given their exposure to it. Although, this _was_ what Scarecrow had been waiting for, so his powers of observation were likely fogged over when it came to the fears of his counter-part.

"You look like a man who takes himself too seriously," Scarecrow informed.

_What's your professional opinion, doctor? _he asked Jonathan, tossing a look of impish pleasure to his side. It made any phobias he maintained dissipate.

"Do you want my opinion?" Jonathan asked, playing along and looking back to the now obviously panicked man on the floor. He didn't cry or scream though - killjoy. Although he did swat quite a bit around his face, confirming Jonathan's suspicions that he feared the winged rodents he'd personified into his alter ego.

"You need to lighten up."

* * *

They'd gone back home, the hazy light feeling of imagining the bat man terrified and helpless -and on fire- still with them. He shrugged off his coat, hanging it in the closet and untied his shoes. For all the enjoyment of the day, it still ended quite regular to anyone else's. His keys tinkled lightly as he tossed them in the bowl he kept by the door so that he wouldn't misplace it. Scarecrow followed suit, but was finished before Jonathan, and stepped out into the open space of the loft. Settling down into the navy blue couch, he asked very bluntly,

_Diagnosis?_

"By choosing the bat, he's mastering his chiroptophobia and capitalizing on it by making others fear it; when he sees their fear, he associates their fear of him to his fear of bats, and when confronted with the thought of _actual_ bats, he's reminded of who he _doesn't _want to be," Jonathan theorized, settling into the couch beside Scarecrow, leaning back and shutting his eyes. It was tiring, all this League of Shadows business.

The Bat Man's choice was a choice that intrigued and irked Jonathan because he'd made the opposite choice in the identity of his composite persona. Composite because when he was _Scarecrow_ he was all the elements of himself.

The doctor that the "civil" world knew, was the extension, the one who knew how to work the systems. Scarecrow was just the one who got to play in the real world once the doctor had made it fit for such purposes. He was a rational man, not an anarchist and while he had his own flare for drama as the Bat Man did, he had no delusions of grandeur or any other desire than to watch and study fear.

But why the bat? It was a similar question he could ask himself if he didn't already know the reason; why a Scarecrow? It was a scarecrow because of the _birds_. Wretched winged beasts, too stupid to do anything but pick at the diseased carcasses of their own kind, tossing themselves from shadow to shadow in squalor that rats and cockroaches bred in. Rat's and roaches were fine, situated on the ground and making small noises, and they were easily scared off. But birds? They were too stupid, they'd come at you, claws forward, desperately trying to propel themselves upwards, even if they hit walls. They clustered, squawking and pecking at each other if they got in each other's way. They even made noises when there was no reason to, breaking the silence with throaty cries; not at all unlike his patients at Arkham, but instead with sleek little bodies that darted unexpectedly and the glassy eyes they looked at you with, too deep to read so that you couldn't decipher for a reason. The reason for this was simple too; there was no reason in them.

In short, it had to be a scarecrow. It had to be something frightening enough to keep them away from him.

But what the bat man had done was the opposite. He took his greatest fear and took it a step further than just making it an accepted part of him. He _became_ it, made it an icon for the city, but also, Jonathan's doctor's mind suspected, he did it for himself. Jonathan gave him the credit of courage, but courage didn't mean much to him. Courage only mattered if you were afraid of something, and since he was only irrationally afraid of _one_ thing...well, he wasn't going to become the bird man. The Scarecrow persona was much more personal than his fear. He'd been wrong to say that there was nothing more personal than fear; revenge was just as equally personal. He didn't need to face any fears when he had that, and he hadn't needed to as he watched that jock and the girl who'd so overzealously rejected him be literally _frightened to death._

He felt a weight descend overtop him, and fingers at his throat, pulling at his tie.

_Hello, Jonathan, care to share?_

"No, I'd rather not," he grinded out, mood taking a turn in the opposite direction as he thought about things past. He opened his eyes, banishing the recollections, Scarecrow's face filling the space of his thought instead. It was too dark to see him properly, even though he was close enough to feel him breathing, silhouetted by the back window.

_No? Well, you shouldn't sleep like this, _Scarecrow stated matter-of-factly, pulling back the knot of the tie and slipping it over his head. Their hands knocked together as Jonathan listlessly aided him. He didn't resist any of Scarecrow's movements, too tired, allowing him to take over, long fingers taking off his glasses, unbuttoning his shirt, loosing the buckle to his trousers.

_An apple a day keeps the doctor away,_ Scarecrow began to recite. This was his favourite nursery rhyme before sleep; it also meant that he thought it was time to eat.

"Apple in the morning --Doctor's warning," Jonathan continued, taking the next line as he stood, Scarecrow clambering off him. Scarecrow pulled his arms out of his shirt from behind as he took the following line,

_Roast apple at night - starves the doctor outright._

"Eat an apple going to bed - knock the doctor on the head."

Scarecrow bumped him lightly on the head with a bright green apple from the bowl on the counter. Jonathan took it appreciatively, suddenly realizing that he hadn't eaten in all the excitement.

_Three each day, seven days a week - ruddy apple, ruddy cheek._

Jonathan smiled faintly, leaning over the counter and taking a bite. Crisp, sweet.

_Why do you like nursery rhymes so much? _Scarecrow asked, leaning back on the steel counter beside him, unbuttoning his own shirt with slow care.

"They make me feel good," Jonathan answered languidly.

_Don't talk with you're mouth full._

"Yes, mother," Jonathan said, purposefully chewing as he spoke. It didn't bring him the satisfaction it would have brought a child however, and he carefully chewed and then swallowed. If you talked with your mouth full, one day you'd choke.

"Sorry," he apologized, frowning. Scarecrow shrugged, and began to recite another nursery rhyme,_ Little Boy Blue_. Jonathan waved a hand, indicating that he did indeed get the message that it was getting to be time for sleep.


	2. Part Two of Two

_It's Raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring! _Scarecrow sang shrilly, yanking back the covers of the bed and tossing another apple to Jonathan. It landed in front of his face and his eyes flicked open, startled. It's green was blurred without his glasses. Raising a hand to his temples, Jonathan took a long breath and then pinched his nose. He didn't like being woken up like this, but it seemed to be Scarecrow's favourite way of doing it. Maybe he thought that Jonathan looked funny, disoriented and head still thick with sleep as slowly dragged himself off the bed.

_He went to bed..._

Jonathan winced and let out a low curse as Scarecrow knocked him on the head, much harder than he'd done the night before.

_...Bumped his head, and couldn't get up in the morning!_

Despite his affinity for nursery rhymes, this was one that Jonathan was sure he could hate without any nostalgia to make him regret it.

"What are you so excited about?" Jonathan asked coldly, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and massaging the throbbing bump forming on the side of his head. That _hurt._ It seemed either that Scarecrow didn't care, or hadn't realized just how hard he'd hit him. He hoped that it was the latter, but suspected the former.

_What's not to be excited about?_ Scarecrow asked blankly. _How about more bat trivia?_

"You just hit me on the head. Hard." Jonathan pointed out. "I don't see how that makes you candidate for my good graces. You also realize that we have other food, yes?"

_Sorry,_ he glossed over. Jonathan sighed, watching as Scarecrow sat himself cross-legged on floor looking every bit like a child expectantly waiting to hear a daring adventure filled to the brim with violence, gore, heroics, sacrifice; all the elements of great legend and myth. Well, at least he was interested.

"His sense of justice is forgiving. He fights fire with fire, but I haven't heard a single report of any death. Some gruesome injuries on some of the seedier villains of the city, but nothing life threatening."

_And why do you think this is?_ Scarecrow asked in his best scholarly voice. Jonathan was unsure what to make of his fanaticism. If he didn't have an interest in it himself, he'd have been reluctant to encourage it.

"He's trying to do what he perceives to be the 'right' thing. My best assessment would be that like his decision to dress-up as a bat, it has something to do with overcoming other fears of his. It could be anything; maybe a murdered relative, abuse, ideals studied from books. The point is that he's developed a keen sense of 'right' and 'wrong', and he refuses to be corrupted by temptation."

_Don't people usually fight the dark with light? Unless you aren't done sharing?_

"More later, I've spoiled you enough as it is. We have to get ready."

* * *

The pretty little lawyer was becoming a problem; it was the second time she'd made herself known. Given that she was supposed to be _dead_ this came as some small surprise. Nothing that he couldn't handle however. With the time coming so quickly for the League's plan to be put into action, he had less and less rules to follow.

Scarecrow watched her with curiosity; Jonathan found her amusing too. Scarecrow leaned into him, speaking in his ear as though hoping that she'd see just so that he'd have the pleasure of denying her what he was saying,

_Like a little bird, all ruffled and worked up over nothing._

Jonathan didn't like to think of her as a bird, but saw Scarecrow's point.

"Outside, he was a giant. In here, only the mind can grant you power," he told her. He didn't _dislike _her per say, admired her _spunk_. It wasn't going to get her anywhere that she _wanted_ to go though.

"You enjoy the reversal?" she asked, nether lip set out in a defiant pout, her eyes glowering at him, accusing him of cruelty, or coyness, or all manner of poor personality traits she imagined him to have. He wasn't trying to win any popularity contests though; didn't need it when he didn't care and held all the cards anyways. The look wasn't so different from his patients in Arkham, he mused, thinking of the angry ones. They were the ones who thought that they were hiding things and maybe they could, for a while, but he'd always find it out, always find whatever it was they were so afraid of hiding and using it against them. But she wasn't one of his patients; it didn't make her any more complicated to predict however. He'd pinned her for what she was at her first complaint after the hearing about the third thug of Falcone's she spotted under his umbrella of insanity.

_Better watch out, she looks like she wants to peck your pretty blue eyes out, _Scarecrow commentated. It wasn't a real warning; Jonathan didn't need it.

He looked back at Falcone for a moment, thinking about how Ms. Dawes had no idea what she was getting herself into. Yes, she was pushing buttons and finding the right ones, but it wasn't for the machine she was trying to break down. He wasn't worried about what she thought she was doing. Besides, there was nothing this woman could do to scare him that he couldn't reverse back to her in ten-fold.

"I respect the mind's power over the body. It's why I do what I do," he answered with a curt ease, a smile ghosting over his lips. The Scarecrow smirked beside him.

"I do what _I_ do to keep thugs like Falcone _behind bars_ not in therapy. I want my own psychiatric consultant to have full access to Falcone, including blood work; find out what exactly you put him on."

She wasn't as intimidating as she thought she was, thought Jonathan. It was what she knew that was intimidating, and he wondered when she'd find out that putting emphasis on certain words and trying to stare down people stronger than her wasn't nearly as effective as she thought it was. She was like a child playing detective in the interrogation room with the arrogant satisfaction that she was doing 'the right thing'. But these were his interrogation rooms. Glancing at Scarecrow, Jonathan sniffed as he only blinked blankly, a perfect example of what her 'intimidation' achieved. He gave credit for the attempt though, working with what she had. When she discovered that it was her resourcefulness was what would concern people, then she'd be intimidating. But she wouldn't have time for that now.

It would have been fine, if she'd stopped here, but a moments consultation after she demanded the blood work to be done _immediately_ as in _now_ between he and Scarecrow drew an unanimous conclusion; that they'd have to get rid of her. This was fine, Jonathan thought. She was already supposed to be dead, after all.

* * *

_Who knows you're here?_ Jonathan asked languidly, eyes blank through the mask as he tried to force her into making contact. It didn't seem to be working and Scarecrow leaned over her and barked the question again. Jonathan stepped aside to watch patiently, knowing that Scarecrow did a better job at intimidating answers out of people than he did. However, it looked like the concentrated dose had been a bit of an overkill, Ms. Dawes' eyes rolling madly back and forth looking for an escape and her back arching backwards as she squirmed uselessly on the table. Jonathan sighed. He'd thought that she'd been made of stronger nerves than that. Apparently he'd overestimated her.

But he hadn't underestimated the Bat's perception. It would have been a nice time for it to have been overestimated.

Scarecrow wrenched his mask off to get a better look around the warehouse, _Is he here?_

"He's here," Jonathan answered before Scarecrow even finished asking, taking off his own mask to look up into the dark beams. He thought that maybe he could hear him, little clicks here and there, though it could have been anything.

"Who?" their thug asked. As though it wasn't obvious. Scarecrow indulged however, excited,

_The _Bat_ Man._

_His favourite topic,_ Jonathan thought wryly. The nervousness of what was about to happen put his body into hyper-vigilance and he tried to spot where the danger would come from. This was _good._

What do we do? What about the girl? Can he fly? Can he disappear? Jonathan quickly doled out the orders, entertained at just how much _fear_ even the rumours of the Bat had induced in the city's lowlifes. He pulled his mask back over his head, checked the spray mechanism in his sleeve, making sure that he was ready. Scarecrow beckoned him into the shadows and they waited for the opportune moment to spring the gas on the Bat Man, watching as the Bat swooped from shadow to shadow, an extension of the dark, dragging the thugs with him as though they were nothing, which compared to him, they weren't.

_Seeing as we have a quick minute,_ Scarecrow began, watching the Bat take down another thug, _care to tell me why he's chosen a symbol of synonymous with the dark instead of modifying his symbol for the light? Asides from not wanting to be called the Albino Bat?_

Jonathan looked at the Scarecrow witheringly; _seriously? Now?_ He sighed. Why not?

"Because he can't be as good as everyone wants him to be, and he knows it, knows that he _isn't_. I wouldn't be surprised if he's done things similar to what the felons he's taking down have done. There's no other way to fight criminals in this city but to understand them, to know the difference between the ones that are desperate, stupid or simply driven by greed. And the best understanding comes from experience; chivalry is dead."

_I'll say._

Then Scarecrow, over eager, sprang out, and Jonathan groaned, going after him in an attempt to back him up. _Too soon!_

For a moment, he thought that it might have worked out anyways, but within seconds it was obvious that there was nothing he could have done against the Bat's brute strength and honed reflexes. It was primitive, but against him and Scarecrow, it worked. Scarecrow was knocked aside by the falling body of the hired help, and Jonathan gasped as his arm was twisted into an awkward position, one threatening dislocation. The other hand pulled his head back by the hair-- was it time for a trim, he wondered, one of those silly thoughts thoroughly misplaced given the situation. A thought that came from fear. He didn't try to master it, instead taking it in fully, excited by what it did to his body, and how it seemed to put everything into perspective.

He hardly heard what the Bat said about a taste of his own medicine, the vapour bringing a sharp sting to his eyes and clogging his lungs as it soaked in. He's forgotten how quickly the vapour took hold, how quickly his heart would race towards terror. He tried to look away but out of the corner of his eye the Batman's mask was melting and melding onto his face to create something more than a man, more than a monster; fear. Pure _unadulterated_ fear. He tried to resist, look away, but was roughly redirected by a swift change in position, the Bat's grip now firmly at his throat.

Jonathan tried to listen to what the Bat was asking, but marvelled instead at the fear uncoiling from his stomach up into his mouth, blocking speech. _Scarecrow!_ he shouted for behind it, but even he only heard a strangled gasp that he knew was useless.

_"Who are you working for?"_ the monster demanded. He could see a black bile beginning to move past it's teeth onto it's lips, thick and bubbling. Immediately he knew that he couldn't let it touch him. He had to get the Bat away, had to get to his antidote; he didn't have the resilience built for such a concentrated dose, not if he wanted to resume his work. He needed his minds facilities about him to _observe_ properly, to _study._

"Ra's..Ra's al Guhl," he rasped out from behind the fear bundled in his throat. If he could just breathe properly, maybe he could calm himself enough, but the pressure on his throat only seemed to get tighter. The effort to escape only pushed his mind back further, the Bat Man looking as though he were at the far end of a quickly lengthening tunnel from him, a black fog coming in from the corners of his sight.

_"Ra's al Guhl is dead,"_ he heard the Bat growl and Jonathan breathlessly disagreed. _"Who are you working for? Crane!"_

The growl knocked him further back in the black tunnel with another tightening of the monster's enormous hand and he felt Scarecrow catch him from behind, trying to support them both. But Jonathan only fell harder through the monster's black fog. It must belong to him, he thought through his panic thick mind.

_Dr. Crane isn't here right now,_ he informed smartly, _But if you'd like to make an appointment…_

_Always the comedian,_ Jonathan thought with some last grasp of fleeting humour before he was thrown against the metal and the black fog overtook his vision completely.

* * *

_Jonathan, wake up,_ he heard Scarecrow coax impatiently. _We have company._ His voice was soft, it must have been because it sounded far away, but the _echo,_ the echo jarred his senses. For all he knew, Scarecrow could actually be shouting at him. He could decide. The toxin hadn't worn off, but as he saw the stirring of black feathers around him, he could tell that had lessened. Scarecrow could keep them at bay; they weren't _attacking_ as much and he was relieved to see that the Bat Beast was no where in view. He slowly perused the room just to make sure.

He looked around the all too familiar cell, and his arms were uncomfortable, wrapped tightly over his chest. A strait jacket. Fine. Didn't matter, no matter how tight the bastards had put it, as long as Scarecrow was there to keep the damn birds away. He watched as one threw itself along the wall, trying to fly upwards in the small space. Stupid.

Hearing another voice, Jonathan flicked his eyes upwards, the harsh light from the overhead lamp reflecting off of glasses. He dipped his head lower so that he could look into the face to see who it was. Seeing that it was the Commissioner, he returned to his vigil, hardly listening at all.

_Strange to be so popular,_ Scarecrow said as he snatched up a bird in midair that had gotten a bit to close for comfort. He ignored the Commissioners questions, entirely disinterested. There were other matters at hand.

"Scarecrow, scarecrow," Jonathan muttered lowly at the satisfying sound of the little neck being snapped. For a moment he thought that he might be roughed up again and tensed. The Commissioner wasn't as angry as the Bat though and didn't take him by the throat of throw him against things.

Thinking on it, maybe he'd been wrong in saying that the Bat wasn't a vigilante. The force had been excessive. What did Dawes mean to the Bat? A friend (something more than a friend?). That'd be something of a scandal, the D.A.'s office working in direct partnership ('direct partnership'?) with the Bat Man. The thought made him smile for a moment, the fear loosing it's grip a bit further. Scarecrow prowled the room, swatting at the birds and keeping them at a distance.

"Who were you working for, Crane?" the Commissioner asked again. He was irritated, that was obvious, but he certainly had better manners than the Bat. Manners were good, he liked good manners. There was a reason for them after all, civility, order. Maybe chivalry hadn't quite given up the ghost just yet. He answered this time.

"Oh, it's to late," Jonathan told him earnestly.

_You can't stop it now,_ Scarecrow assured. Apparently the answer wasn't a pleasing one and the Commissioner evicted himself from the room without a further word. A perfect gentlemen really, Jonathan thought. Better than grabbing him at him and trying to throttle answers out and getting angrier even when the answers he offered were true.

_What's eating him?_ Scarecrow sniffed. Jonathan watched him, feeling himself still holding his eyes wider than was required. Scarecrow had cornered a bird and held his foot overtop it careful aim. In position, he slammed it down overtop the beastly creature, pouring red out of the black onto the asylum floor.

"How ironically poetic," Jonathan commented lightly, eyeing the locks on the door out. Scarecrow scoffed.

_Indeed._

* * *

_I can't get it undone!_ Scarecrow hissed, flinging his hands outwards and sending Jonathan lurching forwards. Jonathan thought for a moment that he was just going to land face first --how embarrassing-- because he had nothing to brace himself with, but thankfully, Scarecrow caught him so that he only fell on his knees.

_I'll go get something sharp._

Jonathan moved over to the wall and pushed himself upwards with his legs so that he was standing properly again. He pressed himself hard against it as a rabble of inmates ran past him, frenzied at their sudden freedom. At least they didn't recognize him, he thought. Who knows what they'd do to their Dr. Jonathan Crane while Scarecrow was looking for _help_ in this madness. At least the toxin was wearing off on him. Whatever effects brought on by the dosage he'd given to the League he'd be able to combat enough. Between him and Scarecrow, they should be fine. If Scarecrow managed to get back.

_Jonathan!_ Scarecrow shouted, waving an arm overtop the crowded hall. Jonathan threw himself into the throng, shoving past disorientated inmates with sharp shoulders. Once he'd made it through he saw Scarecrow with a hand on the shoulder of a meek looking patient with a pair of scissors in hand.

"Can't you do it?" Jonathan asked, eyeing the young woman warily. Her hands didn't look steady. He'd said he'd gone to get something sharp, not something sharp held by someone he had a whole file on that attested that they were indeed crazy even before he tried his fear toxin on them.

_She won't give it to me. Turn around,_ Scarecrow urged, eyes watching warily for any approaching dangers. Looking to the woman again, Jonathan narrowed his eyes and shot an glare at Scarecrow. He only shrugged. Sighing, Jonathan turned around, waiting for his skin to be slit open by the hack job.

_There, not even a scratch. Don't worry about thanking me._

Jonathan ignored the caustic tone and lifted his arms, rolling them behind him, getting the kinks out. That wasn't so bad, he admitted silently. He looked down at the woman, who was sitting in the revolving chair, eyes looking wildly as her fellow inmates moved in complete anarchy, some tearing through drawers at the nurses desk, screaming for their medication, the others not caring if they ever saw another pill or needle again. It was an interesting measure of character, that decision, Jonathan thought.

_Let's go Jonathan, we're missing out!_

"Yes. But we need out effects," Jonathan said, heading back to what had briefly been his cell to retrieve the mask. They'd need the gas mask just in case the League actually did release the vapours into the air. Silently, he dared them to, begged them to. He was ready to see the fruits of his labour.

* * *

The horse had been a good idea, once they'd figured out to ride the damn thing. Scarecrow eventually took over, leaving Jonathan to hang on from behind for dear life. Which worked better than Scarecrow giving backseat driver instructions that got them nowhere.

The Narrows had been driven into madness, as though the patients of Arkham had been carriers of a highly contagious virus. The effects of his own concentrated dose earlier had faded off now and he and Scarecrow could now entertain their lust for fear by seeing it in every face they passed, thrusting it even deeper into the hearts of Gotham's citizens merely by the sight of them mounted on the towering stature of the horse. Now, all he could feel was complete excitement, observing the crowds literally tear each other apart. It was like those zombie movies Scarecrow liked to watch so much. He knew better though, keeping a keen eye out for trouble. These people were much more dangerous than zombies; thinking beings driven mad by all their deepest fears and phobias. It was a mad grab at survival, the intoxicating swell of desperation throbbing in the streets, burning in the fires that no one would put out. They were like a herd of animals set free only to be chased by a pack of wolves.

_"The grand old Duke of York, he had ten thousand men, he marched them up to the top of the hill, and he marched them down again."_

Jonathan gave a short cry as the horse startled and reared, tightening his grip around Scarecrows waist. Someone had run up to the animal, startled it. Watching a knife narrowly miss Scarecrow's leg, he thought that he might be a bit startled too.

_When they were up, they were up,_ Scarecrow chimed in once he'd steadied the horse back onto a suitable path again.

_"When they were down, they were down."_

_When they were only halfway up…_

_"…They were neither up nor down,"_ Jonathan finished, delightedly. That's what they were like too; mindless little soldiers for science, running at the commands of the ones they feared. The armies of adrenaline in their veins making them stupid and compliant. Hyper-vigilance, waiting, preparedness; fight of flight. It varied from one subject to another, but were all derived from the same source. His source, his work, his experiment. He laughed. So did Scarecrow. It would sound like roars to the masses.

They rode through. It was the only thing that they could do really. It was too dangerous to stop in one place, and there was nowhere they could hide that would have guaranteed safety. Better to keep moving.

It looked as thought they'd called the bridges up, leaving the island one over-sized madhouse without anyone left to save them from themselves.

Simply, it was beautiful. A dream come true. All that jazz.

Though he only had access to a small portion of the big picture, it was big enough so that the doctor in him could imagine what it was looking like throughout the entirety of Gotham. Some scientists would have been incredulous at the idea of actually being a part of the experiment, but feeling the chaos surge at him from all sides, his own fear hiccupping in his throat, Jonathan knew that he'd have had it no other way. The best knowledge was gained from experience and hands-on experimentation. He'd always believed that entirely.

A whole city thrust into fear; only in his dreams. The largest social experiment ever conducted in the study of fear! Through the mask he studied the faces of his subjects with giddy joy; acrophobia, autophobia, haptephobia, necrophobia, ornithophobia, pyrophobia. They were all there! All the mysteries of human fear cultivated through experience, conditioning, torment, culture. And what better city to cultivate fear in than Gotham? From birth to death, the lives of Gotham's citizens were /_built_/ on and around fear. He'd only amplified it so that he could observe it's symptoms, to see how the mind would cope when it so clearly had too simply to survive. How would the population fare?

_Think the Bat Man will save the day?_ Scarecrow asked over the primal roars and screams.

"I'd like to see him try," Jonathan shouted back. "The whole city's gone mad from my toxin; one man can't stop it all."

Jonathan grinned. This fear, all these irrational phobias, all the imagined demons and falsely imagined abandonments; these people had no idea how to control their fear. No idea how to control it, to capitalize from it, or even to study it. He could help them, lead them out of fear, study them, employ his theories, find what element it was that caused some to cower and others to stand.

But someone here didn't suffer from his brand of fear; he recognized it in an instant. She was running, yes, but she was also clutching at a child, protecting it. Her fear wasn't the kind he created. No, hers was the good old fashioned fear, self inflicted by the body's natural formula's for fear, a mixture much less effective than his own.

"Perhaps we should make arrangements to get out of this alive?" Jonathan asked Scarecrow mildly. As much _fun_ as this little field trip was, he'd need the proper equipment to gauge it's effectiveness. And if anything went wrong simply because he was acting like a child in a candy store, he certainly couldn't carry out his study if he was imprisoned or dead.

_Already?_

"Our ticket is running away," Jonathan said, indicating with his finger the fleeing district attorney's assistant. Scarecrow didn't answer, instead spurring on their stead to go after her. They raced past a small group of men and woman just beginning to brawl and lost sight of her. Scarecrow circled once around them, and Jonathan watched as they turned on the smallest and began to draw blood with their bare hands, teeth descending into skin like vices and nails harvesting blood from screams.

He could hear her assure the child that everything was going to be 'okay' and that no one was going to _hurt_ him. _Of course they are!_

"Crane?" she asked wildly, staring up at the massive horse, pupils dilated.

_No. Scarecrow,_ the horseman corrected. Jonathan tried to imagine what the boy she was clinging onto was seeing. And also how she'd been inoculated. That could be a point of bother; but there were other formulas he could make. He assumed that the Bat had something to do with it; certainly there was a personal connection somewhere between him and Dawes.

She darted off into the thick vapours again, causing Scarecrow to groan in irritation. He ducked low over the front of the horse, chasing after her.

_There you are!_ Scarecrow shouted, spotting Dawes in the dark. As they thundered towards her, he saw that while she didn't suffer from the toxin, the little boy was entering a state of shock; another casualty perhaps. He couldn't expect children to see the trick to it all, but felt little remorse. A child's mind was just as, if not more interesting than an adults.

"There is nothing to fear," Jonathan proclaimed euphorically, but paused as the horse reared again as Scarecrow tugged on the reins too hard, causing him to go rigid to stay aloft.

"But fear itself!"

The horse settled again and Jonathan watched a moment to see if his words had had any effect at all; it didn't seem to be the case. There was no knowing how much of the vapour the child had breathed in.

_I'm here to help you!_ he heard Scarecrow appeal, trying to lure Dawes into a sense of security. It was too late however, and Jonathan felt the electricity hit at his chest like a bullet, and reverberate through his body, thrusting him backwards. He felt Scarecrow trying to grab him, stop him from falling under the horse and the motion must have caused him to pull the reins too sharp one way because once again, the animal went mad, threatening to drag him underneath it's hoofs of leave him easy pickings for the terrorized mobs. Blood-rushing to his head, he flailed, trying to find Scarecrow's arms to pull himself back up.

* * *

Jonathan had been in a terrible mood for nearly three days. Terrible was an understatement.

They'd made it out of the Narrow's well enough eventually, but only to discover that the plan had been thwarted by none other than the Bat Man. He _had_ said that the Bat had a knack for disruption, but the events of Arkham Asylum and the Narrows had been _so_ promising.

Scarecrow avoid him for almost the entirety of those three days, lurking instead in the shadows of the loft, watching the television, looking as defeated as Jonathan felt in the flickering lights of whatever movie happened to be playing. Last Jonathan saw, Scarecrow had been reduced to watching _Pride and Prejudice._ He supposed that that was the breaking point for him, and an hour after he heard the television go crashing onto the floor. Oh dear.

He knew what was coming next, but didn't make any attempt to run from it. Scarecrow seized his wrist and dragged him roughly into the washroom. The tile was cold underneath his hands and the door slammed. Standing gingerly, he felt along the wall for the light switch.

_This is getting boring,_ Scarecrow growled through the door after thumping it with what sounded like open palms and a stultifying head butt against the wood. Jonathan frowned grimly. Scarecrow was right. It was a setback; something every scientist should be used too given it's frequency. Trial and error, that's how it was. So he had to start over; fine. He yanked the strait jacket off and turned on the water to properly wash himself for the first time in days. Disgusting, he thought, taking a step in. What a state.

As he stepped out he heard Scarecrow approaching again, turning the doorknob.

_Done pouting?_ he asked, leaning on the door frame, waiting for his turn.

"Quite," Jonathan said, wrapping a towel around his waist. He wiped the fog from the mirror with his hand and frowned. Need to shave. Need a hair cut. Something _the Bat Man_ couldn't grab at again. Need to sleep too, but there was no time for that.

"There's work to be done."

_Nice to have you back. You're very good at the silent treatment, I didn't know what you were thinking so I left you along. Good of me, hm?_

Jonathan tossed an appreciative look over to Scarecrow. Nice of him to give the benefit of the doubt, but all that 'thinking time' had been wasted. He hadn't thought of a single thing, but there was only really one thing to do; pick up where they left off. Scarecrow was tapping his foot, a clear indication of his pent-up restlessness.

_Have you ever noticed how similar_ Pride and Prejudice _is to_ Sense and Sensibility? _Why do people worship Austen when it's practically the same story?_

Unable to resist the comedy of Scarecrow's questions, Jonathan had to balance himself out over the sink as he laughed. Yes, it was time to get back to work. He couldn't have poor Scarecrow watching all that fiction when the truth was far more interesting. Maybe some warm-up would be good.

"So, want to hear some more tidbits about our friend, the Bat Man?"

_Thought you'd never ask, _Scarecrow said with sarcastic sweetness. His lips were pressed into a smile now however, reflecting Jonathan's improved morale in himself. He tossed out apple for Jonathan to catch, though it landed in the sink. Setting the razor back on the shelf for a moment, Jonathan turned on the tap to clean it. Taking a bite, it was somewhat diminished from it's prime form, since he'd been gallivanting out among Gotham's lunatics and therefore neglecting his groceries. Not bad though.

So the Bat Man…once he'd gotten home he'd checked on his computer the news he'd missed while in Arkham. Turns out he led quite the reckless car chase after the little incident with Ms. Dawes. Up until that incident, his diagnosis had been severely compromised. He's only been diagnosing the Bat Man, but there were two separate entities. The mask, and the man behind it.

"I said that the Bat Man wasn't a vigilante. The man underneath the cape and cowl however shows certain indications of weakness that his alias is immune too but seeing as they're the same person technically…"

It was back to work, and not a moment too soon, thought Jonathan as Scarecrow lapped up his words. They were in Gotham for the long haul, just like the Bat Man, who even to Jonathan, was becoming something a favourite.


End file.
